The Odd Women eBook

‘Tom is dying,’ wrote Everard, early in
February, to his cousin in Queen’s Road.
’Dr. Swain assures me that unless he be removed
he cannot last more than a month or two. This
morning I saw the woman’—­it was thus
he always referred to his sister-in-law—­’and
talked to her in what was probably the plainest language
she ever had the privilege of hearing. It was
a tremendous scene, brought to a close only by her
flinging herself on the sofa with shrieks which terrified
the whole household. My idea is that we must carry
the poor fellow away by force. His infatuation
makes me rage and curse, but I am bent on trying to
save his life. Will you come and give your help?’

A week later they succeeded in carrying the invalid
back to Torquay. Mrs. Barfoot had abandoned him
to his doctors, nurses, and angry relatives; she declared
herself driven out of the house, and went to live
at a fashionable hotel. Everard remained in Devon
for more than a month, devoting himself with affection,
which the trial of his temper seemed only to increase,
to his brother’s welfare. Thomas improved
a little; once more there was hope. Then on a
sudden frantic impulse, after writing fifty letters
which elicited no reply, he travelled in pursuit of
his wife; and three days after his arrival in London
he was dead.

By a will, executed at Torquay, he bequeathed to Everard
about a quarter of his wealth. All the rest went
to Mrs. Barfoot, who had declared herself too ill
to attend the funeral, but in a fortnight was sufficiently
recovered to visit one of her friends in the country.

Everard could now count upon an income of not much
less than fifteen hundred a year. That his brother’s
death would enrich him he had always foreseen, but
no man could have exerted himself with more ardent
energy to postpone that advantage. The widow charged
him, wherever she happened to be, with deliberate
fratricide; she vilified his reputation, by word of
mouth or by letter, to all who knew him, and protested
that his furious wrath at not having profited more
largely by the will put her in fear of her life.
This last remarkable statement was made in a long
and violent epistle to Miss Barfoot, which the recipient
showed to her cousin on the first opportunity.
Everard had called one Sunday morning—­it
was the end of March—­to say good-bye on
his departure for a few weeks’ travel.
Having read the letter, he laughed with a peculiar
fierceness.

‘This kind of thing,’ said Miss Barfoot,
’may necessitate your prosecuting her.
There is a limit, you know, even to a woman’s
licence.’

‘I am far more likely,’ he replied, ’to
purchase a very nice little cane, and give her an
exemplary thrashing.’